


(three words) and goodnight, indeed

by micketysplit



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-23
Updated: 2012-10-25
Packaged: 2017-11-16 22:16:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/544431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/micketysplit/pseuds/micketysplit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Phil is in recovery from Loki's attack and is on the REALLY good drugs.</p>
          </blockquote>





	1. (three words) and goodnight, indeed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil is in recovery from Loki's attack and is on the REALLY good drugs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For this prompt (http://cc-feelsmeme.livejournal.com/1635.html?thread=267363#t267363)  
> Phil is pining after Clint, Clint is pining after Phil. Phil is in recovery from Loki's attack and is on the REALLY good drugs. No one knows hes alive yet but Clint for whatever reason you wish goes snooping around and finds him. Phil thinks its a drug induced dream so he just goes for it. So put simply drugged up love confession from Phil because he doesn't realize hes awake.
> 
> Bonus points for really raunchy comments from Phil.
> 
>  **ETA:** [evekitten](http://archiveofourown.org/users/evekitten/pseuds/evekitten) translated this fic into Chinese and posted here: [translation (registration required)](http://67.220.88.48/viewthread.php?tid=74514&highlight=). Thanks for that, Evekitten!

Phil stares at the left corner of the ceiling carefully because that's where Clint usually enters his space. _Phil's_ space, not Clint's space. Clint can't invade his own space. Clint is already in his own space. Was.

Was.

Clint does (did), however, invade Phil's space a lot. He pops up when least or most required, and lounges around being terribly insightful or distracting or both at the same time, and Phil doesn't want to think about

( _barton's been compromised_ )

that right now. He doesn't have to. He's here in this space, with quietly humming machines lined up on either side of his comfortable bed, like sentinels guarding a dangerous prisoner. He's hooked up to a few of them; the biggest one has two large and ominous-looking tubes attached to his chest. It doesn't seem real at all, fuzzy around the edges and all float-y, and so it isn't.

He smiles as one of the ceiling panels shift, and someone falls lightly into the small room, a graceful descent that is quick, quiet and tightly efficient. It's Clint, of course. No one else in the entire world falls into rooms like he does, except for Natasha, and she has her own falling-into-room charm. Phil should know. He has the wide and varied experience of having both enemies and colleagues fall into his rooms. Mostly enemies, unfortunately.

It's Clint; well, not really, but it's as good as his brain can come up with. He's happy to see Clint, so happy.

He smiles wider as Clint straightens up from his crouch and stares at Phil with such a complicated expression that Phil can't even begin to read. To most people, Clint is ( _was_ ) an unreadable kind of guy; some of the more impressionable junior agents carry themselves rigidly when Clint strolls past them, his gaze flickering up and down before cutting away. It's hard to get a handle on what he might be thinking, except when he's laughing at one of Phil's jokes, or arguing over mission parameters or handing over some trinket he'd picked up months ago for Phil. Clint's expression, at those times, are as plain as lines in a book: amused, challenging or oddly shy. Phil reads them with great care, and soaks them into his memory.

It's just weird that his mind is delivering this particular expression from Clint, but whatever. Phil is the kind of person who can roll with the punches (he's practical enough to know that this is one of his greatest attributes as an agent), so he goes with it easily. He holds out his hand, the one without the IV tube, just a few inches off the bed because it's shaking, and Clint's enigmatic gaze focuses on his fingers.

"C'mere," Phil says, but his throat is sore and he clears it. "Clint. Come over here."

Clint moves so quickly that Phil's head spins a little, but he keeps smiling as Clint kneels beside his bed, gently grasps Phil's hand in both of his and presses it against his mouth. That's nice. Phil's mind is the best ever. Clint's lips are surprisingly soft against his fingers, and that's a fantastic detail. He tugs a little and Clint lets him go, looking up with eyes wide as Phil touches his cheek, his ear. Gentle strokes; his skin is warm under Phil's fingers as Phil cradles his jaw. Phil wishes he had been brave enough to do this before.

"Hi," he says.

"Hi," Clint answers and swallows hard. "Hey, boss. What's up?"

"I'm so proud of you," Phil says and Clint blinks at him. Phil's grinning outright now; he probably looks as if he's insane and that's fine, because this party is all his head and if it's his party, he can smile if he wants to. "I am. You're so clever. And brave...and talented. I'm grateful you're on my team." He feels his smile fade. "Were."

For some strange reason, Clint's gaze snaps up to the clear plastic bag hanging on the IV pole. His eyes track quickly from left to right, and Phil knows that he can read the fine letters written on the bag.

Phil taps his Clint's cheek, almost imperiously. "Eyes on me, Specialist."

"Sir," Clint acknowledges, but there's a small smile growing under Phil's hand. "Sorry, sir. Go on."

Phil doesn't go on. What he wants to do is lie here and just gaze at Clint's face, at the fine lines at the corners of his eyes and the messy toss of his hair, and so Phil just looks.

"See something you like?" Clint asks after a few quiet beats and _there's_ that little smirk Phil loves. There it is. Phil wants to kiss it.

"Yes," Phil says. "I always see what I like when I'm looking at you." He chuckles a little as Clint appears stunned. "You didn't know. That's all right, really."

"I..."

This is a first. His mind is coming up with all kinds of firsts, and Phil is really okay with that. A dumbfounded Clint is kind of endearing.

"I have a weakness for efficient archers with questionable pasts and good intentions," Phil tells him. "And you look _amazing_ in your field-gear."

Clint's has this expression on his face, as if he just can't compute what's happening right now. Phil just keeps smiling.

"Kiss me," he says, and Clint's mouth actually falls open a little. Phil eyes his lips with great interest. He wants to see how his mind will resolve Clint's taste. Clint doesn't make a move and Phil twitches his eyebrows expectantly. If this was real, Clint would have every right and reason to refuse, but this isn't real and so Clint must kiss him. He explains this very sensible train of thought.

Clint shakes his head. "Phil, I don't think—"

"Exactly," Phil says. "I didn't ask you to think. I want you to kiss me. You are one stubborn dream, I have to say."

Clint lets out a sharp bark of laughter, and then stands up. He leans over Phil, bending down so that he can brush his lips against Phil's, very carefully. Phil makes a small sound in the back of his throat, trying to sit up better so he can increase the pressure, savour Clint's mouth, but a sharp sensation lances through his chest right where the big tubes connect to his body.

"Shh," Clint tells him when he grunts in pain. "Don't move around so much. Here." He kisses Phil again, and it's even better than before. Clint tastes like Clint. Phil likes how he tastes.

"I like how you taste," he says as Clint kneels down again. Clint gives him a sweet smile, but there's a disbelieving tinge to it. "I do," Phil insists. "I'd love to taste you all over."

Gratifyingly, Clint's eyes seem to darken and he _looks_ at Phil in a way that might have led to a very intense experience. As it is, there are apparently some circumstances for which Phil's mind will not suspend disbelief, because their clothes remain on their bodies and Phil is still supine.

"Phil," Clint says, and his tone is low and rough.

"I'd fuck you," Phil says, lolling his head over to the other side of the pillow and looking at Clint out of the corner of his eyes. "I'd come so deep in you. Eat you out after."

"What," Clint whispers, staring at Phil. Phil closes his eyes briefly. He inhales and exhales slowly, and opens his eyes again.

"You'd fuck me too. Your cock in me, it'd be hot and thick, right? Yeah," Phil says and lets his eyes droop back shut. So sleepy. Too bad; he had lots more to say about Clint and Clint's body and Clint's brain and Clint's amazing, indomitable heart. "And then we'd sleep. Together. All the time."

"Phil," Clint says again, and Phil feels the rough pads of his fingers resting on his shoulder.

"I'm okay," Phil says, but he's not sure if the words coming out of his mouth are well-formed right now. "Resting my eyes. I miss you. Where are you? Is the team okay? Nat? If Loki's done anything to you—"

"I'm good, they're all good. I'm _here_ ," Clint says and Phil sighs. "Phil, do you…I mean, if this was real, would you be interested in starting something with me?"

"Something?" Phil is teasing even though he stumbles over the syllables of the word, eyes still closed, sinking slowly away.

"Yeah." Clint sounds as if he's smiling. "Something."

"Of course," Phil says, but he's not sure if his mouth is moving properly. "Of course, Clint."

"I'll see you when you wake up again," Clint says. "I'll be here."

The warm weight of Clint's hand remains on Phil's shoulder. It feels so real.

_fin_


	2. Debrief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _You turned him on so much, he doesn't know what to do with himself._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually had a bunch of these scenes written up randomly, so...here's a bit of a sequel after Phil gets weaned off the Really Good Drugs.

"Welcome back," the medical staff says to Phil as if he had been on a relaxing cruise, instead of having vital parts of his torso replaced or regrown by alien technology. Phil hasn't taken a proper vacation in eight years. He is every HR department's worst nightmare.

(Every six months or so, a rep from that department will loom in his door like an apparition from Dante's Inferno.

"Senior Agent and Assent Handler Coulson," they say in threatening tones; it's amusing how they always call him the full title like that. "Sir, we need you to take a vacation."

"I can't," Phil always tells them. "I won't. You really can't make me." 

Some of them shake their fists at him. One of them actually threw a pencil at him in frustration, paling as he had caught it easily. He hadn't trying to be threatening, he'd just caught the pencil out of reflex and stared at the HR rep with surprise. Clint, who had been presumably asleep on a low futon he had dragged in Phil's office one day, had claimed that the expression on Phil's face had been similar to the one cobras have before striking: kind of contemplatively cold.

HR had gotten to Director Fury to have a meeting about with Phil about it, and Phil had grudgingly taking six days once. Of course, a mythical hammer and the god that accompanied it had landed in their plane of existence without an entry-visa on the second day of Phil's vacation, and Nick had called him in.

Phil had expected something like that to happen.) 

So the nurses, even the doctors, they say, "Welcome back," and they give him quick, delighted smiles as they disconnect him from the machines slowly. Phil gets the idea that he had really been on the brink, or even right over it, and these people had fought tooth and nail to bring him back. He thanks them. He's very grateful for their hard work.

"No problem, sir," one nurse responds. "You'll be out of here soon, and Agent Barton can stop harassing us."

Phil stares at the nurse, feeling something complex build up in his chest, and it has nothing to do with the total artificial heart. "Clint?"

The nurse is busy scribbling in Phil's chart, so he can't see Phil's face. "Yes, sir. Whole team's been in, but he's in nearly all the time. I'm surprised he isn't here as yet."

"Clint," Phil says again, and the nurse comes over to him in concern because the machines indicate that his fancy new Asgardian heart is racing. Through Phil's mind beats a verse of Clint's name and then the chorus of _he was here, he was here and it was all real_.

Shit.

Shitshit _shit_.

+

"You know, when I announce that one of my agents is dead, it'd really help sometimes if they stay that way," Nick says, settling his tall frame in the one of the two chairs that's been placed next to Phil's bed. "Helps me save face."

"When have you ever been concerned with saving face?" Phil wonders.

"Fuck you, man," Nick says, and his tone is warm and relieved. He doesn't say anything else after that, just sits there staring at the wall for a long time. Phil lets him; he doesn't need to hear anything yet, not even about Clint because his mind's been dancing gingerly around a very hazy set of memories, much like Pandora and that damned box. Besides, Nick likes to be quiet around him because Phil gives him space to him think. Then, Nick gets up and says, "HR sent you the hugest card they could find. They finally got three weeks out of you."

"When I told them over my dead body, I didn't expect that to be taken quite so literally," Phil says and Nick laughs real hard. He rests a hand on Phil's shoulder and squeezes lightly, and then takes his leave.

-

Jasper and Maria visit him together, and it's a proper debriefing, more or less. More, because Marie gives him a dry rundown of all that has occurred during Phil's convalescence, and less due to the fact that Jasper spends most of the time ranting about how much he hates Stark.

"Seriously, I hate him. I hate his face, and I hate his stupid beard and I hate how he's _corrupting_ Captain America and Dr. Banner."

"You don't hate him," Maria says, staring at her nails in a fairly idle manner. "He's just real good at getting under people's skin."

"He's so good at it, too," Jasper says, and there's a grudging admiration in his voice that makes Phil smile. Jasper focuses on him. "You know, _we_ didn't even know you were still alive. How'd Barton find you?"

"Stark," Phil guesses, and Jasper glowers.

-

Thor comes in with the requisite amount of noise and triumphant happiness, and there's this strange reaction in Phil's chest, like a lightness that almost makes him want to float off the bed; next thing Phil knows, the room is crowded with doctors holding tiny scanners over him and then turning around and scanning Thor. No one has any idea what is going on, but Thor is giving him some kind of secretive grin and a furtive thumbs-up.

Phil winks at him, not too sure about the secret. Thor laughs until he has to collapse in a chair.

-

"Well, well," Stark says, leaning on the wall with his hands in his pockets, pointedly refusing Phil's invitation to sit down. "You look real good for a dude that's supposed to be dead."

"I have my moments," Phil says, and Stark turns his head and stares at a corner. It happens to be the same section of wall Nick had gazed at in silence, and Phil wonders what _is_ it about that wall. Also, he wonders if Stark is going to stay quiet the way Nick had.

Phil doesn't have that kind of luck.

"What I'm trying to say here," Stark says as if he'd been arguing with Phil for hours, voice tight, "is that I'm not really used to people on my team dying. It messes with my head, and I already have a messy head. Ask Pep."

"I know," Phil says, very quietly, and Stark throws him a surprisingly venomous glare, before returning his focus to the wall.

"Another thing? I on a _team_ now. That's all on you, Agent." Stark's dark eyebrows gather like stormclouds over his eyes. "I mean, people I need to take care of. _Responsibility._ They're in my way. They keep _asking_ me things, like if I ate or if I actually know how toxic that grease is, why don't I wash my hands. Blahblahblah."

"I suppose it's like having a family," Phil says, as evenly as he can and Stark goes tense all over.

"Had one once. Not something I want to repeat."

"Deal with it," Phil tells him. "Let them take care of you, let them back you up. Stop being a solitary asshole, it gets old after a while. Trust me on that."

Stark laughs in his face, but his body language changes; his shoulders relax and his expression actually brightens. Distantly, Phil acknowledges that one of the most dangerous aspects of Stark's character is his charm, and also, _Stark knows this._

"You're a dick," Stark says, and walks out the door. From out the corridor, his voice floats back: "Get your ass back to work ASAP. Sitwell might poison me next week."

-

"Hello." Captain America's greeting is soft and polite. "Mind if I sit?"

"Go ahead," Phil says, and there is a ten-year-old in his brain basically going batshit. Up close, Captain America seems more unreal than he does in the pictures, all neat hair and muscles and that aura of quiet strength. Then Phil looks into his eyes, and he reads doubt there, and fear, layered under a grim brand of determination. Phil...can relate.

Phil says, "How's it going, Steve?" 

Steve Rogers, the man who is Captain America sometimes and just Steve most of the time, cocks his head and looks at Phil for a long beat.

"So far," Steve finally says, "I've been trying to understand the internet. What can you tell me about lolcats?"

-

Dr. Banner wanders in as if he had been on his way to a lab. 

"I don't know you," Banner says, "but I've heard a lot about you from Tony. And Clint."

Phil's new heart flinches in his chest. Banner's gaze goes towards the machine that's still monitoring how the device is interacting with his body.

"Hmm." Dr. Banner looks at him once more, and his regard is quietly assessing. "Careful with that heart of yours," he says. 

"I'll make sure I put it in good hands," Phi says without thinking, and then blinks. 

Dr. Banner nods, and then wanders out again. Phil can see why Stark likes him so much. The man is obviously crazy-brilliant, and that's just the kind of brilliant that delights Stark so much.

-

"Who returned Barton to himself?"

"I did," Natasha says. She's sitting too close to him, her eyes fixed on Phil's face. Phil is used to this. "It's in my report. I de-compromised him with a steel railing. And my fist."

It might have sounded like boasting from someone else. Natasha is simply laying out the facts. 

"I may have confused him a little when he found me," Phil says, and fights the wave of embarrassment that crashes over his whole body. He looks her right in the eye as he speaks, though, and Natasha's lips quirk into her version of a smile.

"He said." She sounds as if she wants to laugh, but her face is composed. "You turned him on so much, he doesn't know what to do with himself."

Phil doesn't know what to say to that. Natasha pats his arm, companionably, and then sits back to watch videos on her Starkphone.

-

When Clint enters Phil's space, using the door like a normal person, Phil stares at him as if he's never seen Clint before. Clint stays by the door, and gives him a quick smile. It's nervous at the seams.

"Hey, boss."

Phil breathes in and out, very slowly. Then he raises his hand, holds it out to Clint. His fingers are steady. 

Clint stares at his hand, and says, "I know you were under some pretty serious medication when you said the things you said."

Phil is mortified, of course. He said some seriously intense things to Clint, things that shouldn't have understood what dawn was, much less seen the light of day, but he's not going to lie to Clint. 

"I meant it," Phil says, and steels himself. Clint can still let him down easy. He's laying himself bare here. "Every word."

"Fuck, Phil," Clint breathes out and walks towards him. He takes Phil's hand, and kisses the fingers, before sliding his own hand up Phil's arm, up his shoulder and neck, cupping his jaw. He repeats Phil's name like a prayer, and presses a kiss to his mouth.

Phil closes his eyes, and his heart beats contentedly in his chest.

+

("I mean, the sex stuff was hot," Clint admits much later, and he gives Phil a sidelong grin. "It was pretty unbelievable hearing you say things like that, trust me. You're kind of cute when you're drugged to the gills."

"Cute," Phil says, deadpan but distracted by the way Clint's body is curled against him in the bed. 

"Yeah. Cute. But when you said you were proud of me…" Clint fiddles with the strings that tie the top of Phil's hospital-wear. "That was…good. Really good."

"You're going to be the easiest relationship I'll ever have," Phil declares, and Clint's body shakes as he laughs.)


End file.
